Through Fogged Spectacles
by The Curse of Normality
Summary: Knowledge truly is power... it ends lives. From the time that he was ripped away from his home in District Three to the day that he donned the victor's crown. The tale of everyone's favorite nerd/victor, Beetee.
1. Serenity

**Author's Note: Hello! Do I dare say that this is my first fanfic and risk scaring you all away? I do. Yes, this is indeed my first story on this site, but have an open mind!**

**This story is based on my favorite character, Beetee. He reminds me of myself and I've been dying to tell his tale. It will constantly be from his point of view. Pease enjoy!**

I stand beside my sister, quietly walking through a dim hallway, leaving the open doors of our bedrooms behind us. We're making our way toward the "Cave." My safe haven. And who couldn't use a little extra, if nonexistent, security? Today, of all days.

At the end of the hallway, it stands. A creaky door whose hinges refuse to close all the way. It was formerly my mother's room, because of course we can't afford to donate an entire room to my own entertainment. So it still smells of her, still has that air of peace that I like to think that me and my sister would enjoy if our mother was still with us. That's the sweet scent that greets us as we pull the door open.

On a rickety table sits an array of metal bits, shiny pieces of arguable significance, accompanied by a variety of rusty tools resembling torture devices. A smile forms on my thin, ashen face. This is my true home. I walk forward and serenely sit down by the table, my eyes already feasting on the different shapes, sizes, and functions of each part. Already, I can tell that I'm going to be even more annoyed than usual by my broken, cracked pair of ancient glasses. Realizing that Frill is still motionless in the doorway, I absently gesture for her to join me.

A welcome relief from the constant stream of tears that has been rushing down my sister's face all morning, I can hear a miniscule giggle. "I didn't want to interrupt," she states with mock seriousness. "It seems like something sacred, you and these bits of… shiny material." Her choice of words is intentional, to illustrate her intense ignorance of all things mechanical. Frill is an intelligent girl, but she is simply incapable of seeing the beauty that I do in these pieces of "shiny material."

"Your pitiful vocabulary pains my ears," I tell Frill, and I glimpse a slightly wounded look on her face. If there's one talent that she takes pride in, it's her knowledge of words. I smile. A genuine, reassuring smile. "Joking, Frill."

Frill just returns my somewhat blissful expression and walks over to me, her eyes still bloodshot from her nervousness this morning and from witnessing our father strike me. A beating from our father is not an entirely uncommon occurrence, but I can tell that it still traumatizes Frill.

We sit in silence for a few minutes as my fingers toy with my spare bits and my eyes gaze beneath the restraints of my spectacles. Peace. The usual cold darkness of District Three disappears in the Cave. I can simply turn my spare parts around in my head, over and over, and quietly speak to Frill. I can enjoy the muted gray sunlight that arrives in drapes through a grimy yet blessed window. I can forget that right next door is the room that my alcoholic father inhabits. I can forget that I'll possibly be pulled from a glass bowl to die in a few hours.

The dark thoughts of the Reaping begin to cross my mind, and I sigh. Even in my sanctuary, the Capitol can intrude. After Frill begins to fidget, I can tell that she, too, is thinking too much about the afternoon to come. The delicate silence is shattered by my sudden speech. With it, there's an abrupt change in the mood of the atmosphere. "Do you want to talk about it?" I say, not needing to indicate the fact that I'm referring to the Reaping.

Yes, the change in the mood is palpable. With a brief mention of the Reaping, the warm bliss in the room has frozen into a block of cold apprehension and reluctant lips. My eyes don't rise from the task I'm performing with my hands, although I'm attentive to my sister.

It's a few seconds before Frill responds. "I'm worried," she says, rather unnecessarily.

Still my eyes don't stray as I intensely gaze at a stubborn bit of aluminum that simply refuses to cooperate with it's fellow pieces. "There's no need to be worried," I say. "You know that you're not eligible for the Reaping yet."

I can almost hear Frill gnawing on her lip, a common method of calming herself whenever she's upset or excited. I know that she's looking at me intently, but I refuse to meet her gaze. "You're eligible," she replies, suddenly whispering.

Finally my eyes lift and search for her earnest brown ones. Our stares meet and I do my best in comforting her. "I'll be fine, Frill," I say, waving off her concern.

In fact, the Reapings are a constant source of stress for me. Not because I'm worried for my own well-being, which I place little importance on. It's that I know that in a few years Frill's name will enter into that huge glass ball and suddenly it will be possible for her to have to fight to the death. If Frill's name was ever called, I would volunteer for her in a heartbeat, but unfortunately it's not something that's allowed. I'll be eligible for another three years, but they'd never let two boys from the same District travel to the Capitol.

I've put much contemplation into the possibility. If Frill's name was called during the Reaping and I was still young enough, I'd volunteer for the boy from our District. Then, perhaps, I could keep her safe; protect her for as long as I lived. Ideally, I would shelter her until we were the only two left and then carry out the necessary actions to ensure that she'd make it back safely. But of course, the odds of that are certainly not in our favor.

Frill's frantic voice snaps me back into the present. "But what if you're not?" she presses. "What if you're reaped? You've taken too much tesserae."

I shrug. "I'm only fifteen, Frill. Don't worry until I'm a bit older and have a few more entries." Realizing that this sounds a bit illogical, I add, "Of course, at that point you'll have to worry about yourself." One glance at Frill's face and I can tell that what I've said certainly hasn't accomplished what I want it to; telling her this has certainly not comforted her.

After my stare has been fixed downward throughout the conversation, my eyes finally rise to meet Frill's gaze. In a completely un-Beetee-like action, I stroke her tear-stained face. Her eyes meet mine and my face flushes in embarrassment as I pull my hand away. The thought crosses my mind that at times like these, she probably wishes she has a sister instead, perhaps one who's a bit more sensitive. "On second thought, don't worry at all. It won't help anything." Frill's answering smile absolutely lights up her previously dreary features. She hugs me tightly, and I awkwardly return it.

And with that, I continue tinkering with my pieces.

At one point during the following hours, a slightly cheered Frill yawns and quickly tip-toes to her room to retrieve her book. When she returns, she gazes at the fading words as if they hold the secrets of the universe, as if her life depends on their meaning. Personally, I have never been intrigued by the two-dimensional words littering some sheets of bound paper. I prefer things that have all three dimensions, that illustrate the laws of mechanics and physics, that truly are real. Words on paper aren't. So I've never understood Frill's fascination, but of course the same probably goes for her. She'll tolerate gazing at my tinkering for a period of time, and then she'll eventually surrender and fetch her book. It bemuses me, but I can hardly criticize Frill's reasoning.

She's sitting there, with her mind deep into the world of her puzzling literature, when I ruefully squeeze her hand. The hours of peace have been nice, and spending the morning in the Cave is the closest thing that we have to a tradition on Reaping day. Of course, I'm always aware that the serene hours can't last forever. "Frill," I whisper. "We have to go."

The light leaves my sister's eyes and her smile swiftly morphs into a terrified frown. I gently grip her shoulder in what I hope is a reassuring action. "Just go to your room and pick something pretty to wear. I'll deal with Dad."

The mention of him reminds me of the pain in my cheek and eye, and Frill's edgy gaze flickers to my bruised face. "I'll come with you," she immediately answers.

I shake my head firmly. "It won't help, Frill." Before she can protest again, I begin to walk to the door and deftly swing it open to the hallway. Confronting my father strangely reminds me of walking toward an executioner, but my features retain a no-big-deal expression for Frill's sake.

Frill doesn't move as I open my father's door. I try not to be so easily intimidated by the man, but someone who's so capable of hurting me or, more horrifyingly, Frill, is someone who I immediately try to avoid for self-preservation purposes. On usual days, my father would not even emerge from his room at all, and Frill and I would not approach him for anything except to deliver meals. But of course, attendance to the Reaping is mandatory.

All I can think of as I creep through the door is how unfair it is. I'm risking my life by entering my name into the Reaping Bowl multiple times, just to feed the man that constantly threatens me and my sister.

Walls, once painted a dark charcoal on my mother's insistence, suffocate the light in the room with their dull, fading paint that's long past the point of chipped. Curtains and clothing lay in heaps on the floor. The carpet is completely soiled with foul smelly, vile substance that I can't bear to look at. The bed's proper assembly has been humiliated, courtesy of the flipped and out of place mattress, bare wooden bed frame, and sprawled blankets. I can only imagine being confined to this sullen wasteland minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day, year after year. I almost feel a shiver of sympathy, and then suppress it.

I clear my throat loudly. No response or sign of life. "Um… Father?" I say meekly, aware of Frill's intent eyes. She's watching from the Cave, despite my instructions to take refuge in her room. "Father?"

A swaying figure rises from behind a clump of sheets in the corner. "Boy!" he exclaims with a bottle of alcohol in his hand. Before he can say anything else, I interrupt.

"Dad." I never call him Dad; it seems too affectionate of a term. "The Reaping. You need to get dressed and be… presentable."

All that meets my gaze is a puzzled look on my father's face. Removing my glasses, I keep my gentle, feigned expression of patience. But the familiar rage swells within me, as it always does when I am forced to confront and actually speak to the mess of a man. A part of scrawny little five-foot-tall Beetee has a secret desire to slam his father against the wall and shake him into consciousness, real, solid, true consciousness, not the bleariness that alcohol provides. Scream at him that he has children. A beautiful, sweet, neglected little daughter. A son who has a massive chance of being thrown into the arena and almost no chance of ever emerging again. But I must control it.

My father simply meets my gaze with a detached, perplexed stare once more. It's surprising that our half-conversation has even managed to go so long without deteriorating to screams and violence. I should be cautious. So I slowly tread to where he lays once more, hunched on the ground, and grasp his shoulders, gently but firmly. I pull him up to his feet and walk him to his pitiful wardrobe, a wicker basket on the floor filled with only one grease-stained shirt. A sigh escapes me. I collect all of the other pieces of clothing, strewn across the grayish concrete floor. All of them are wrinkled, greasy, and stained.

Reluctantly I strip my father of his current clothes and do my best to flatten his other most decent garments so that they at least make him look like a presentable human and not the thoughtless, drunken pig that he is in reality. Within a quarter of an hour and with a good deal of resistance and refusal to cooperate, he's dressed in faded, graying jeans and a far too big shirt, also graying. Of course, this is District Three, where everything's graying. And though his clothes are the nicest in the house, they, also, are stained and ripped in places.

Oh, well. Like I said, this is District Three, where people have little or no tendency to care. About much of anything.

After it was clear that there was no threat to me, Frill had cleared to her room and now dons a beautiful, if ill-fitting, black dress that, even with its bulky folds and bunched-up wrinkles, fall to her ankles with a certain elegance. Upon walking out of my father's room and seeing her, I hastily run to my room and select an acceptable outfit, consisting of a simple shirt and slightly small jeans.

Jarringly, realize that it's getting quite late; getting to Town Center in time will require a fair bit of hurrying. Through the dreary hallway, my voice resounds. "Frill! We're going to be late!" Then I turn and I realize that she's been standing in her doorway gazing at me for minutes. An exasperated sigh, and she goes to get our father. I quickly step out and subtly restrain her with an outstretched arm, going to fetch him myself.

After our father ambles at a leisurely pace through the hallway, we begin our trip to the Town Center, pretending to be in much more of a hurry than we actually are to keep unpleasant premonitions at bay.

As we rush out the door, me pulling my uncaring father behind, I turn to Frill. "You look beautiful." I gesture to her dress.

Frill shrugs. "It's Mom's," she says simply, as if that explains it all. She's trying to appear nonchalant but it's obvious that she's shaking all over.

Silence ensues as we run to the Center. Town Center. Dreary buildings and multiple factories pass in a blur. The cobbled streets made from unevenly paved bricks trip our feet as we run and make the task of pulling our father along even more difficult. Even in our hurried state, the sight of my District fills me with some awe. Three is a widely complained about place; it's gloomy, it's oppressive, it's difficult to live in, it's seldom rewarded for it's hard work. It's gray. I'm sure that other Districts must long for a new home just as much as the citizens of Three. So throughout my life I've learned to drink it in. To learn to love it. To make gray my favorite color, to love the dreariness and wetness of the constant fog and mist. Just as my mother did.

Then I stub my toe on a stone brick. The sudden pain bursts through my foot, crippling me for a split second. Maybe I don't love this District so much, I think wryly.

When we finally arrive at the scene of the sadistic ceremony and take in the roaring mutters of the huge crowd, it's obvious that the small clearing has long since been filled with eager spectators. Now my father and Frill will have to witness the Reaping from a sizable distance. That's probably better. Before I depart to the fifteen-year-olds' section, I grab Frill's shoulder.

"I'll be fine, Frill," I murmur to her quietly. Before she can answer or get emotional, I'm rushing away.

A shaky inhale. A quivering exhale. Not only from me, but from every single adolescent in District Three. The Reapings are the frightening part of the whole process of the Games. For everyone. Because not only are they watching their loved ones suffer, they're fearing for their own lives. This only becomes clearer to me as I descend upon the livened crowd and disappear into the large sea of nervous children.

"Hello, Beetee!" comes a cheery exclamation. I wince and quickly turn away, getting myself lost into the jungle of different faces. Probably a kid from school who constantly ignores me on any regular day, but feels the need to become my best friend on Reaping Day. I shrug. It's not an uncommon method of coping with anxiety. Convince yourself that you're surrounded by a distorted amount of friends that all love you and root for you. It might not be a bad idea, except that it's humiliating to hear yourself practically beg for friendship in that way.

I stand, motionless and impassive, for a few short moments before Gyana, the District Three escort, appears on the stage. She's more stumbling than walking, I realize as she makes her exaggerated entrance. She dons ridiculous, tiny pink shoes that barely contain her stuffed-in feet. Their heels must be at least five inches tall, and Gyana's poor feet are stretched until they are almost vertical. Worse, her fanciful dress completes an image resembling a train wreck, a clash of unnerving colors such as the most neon greens, glittering golds, and jarring pinks. In a district so filled with gray, I find my gaze shying away from her.

She's quite young, Gyana. Usually escorts are middle aged or even older, clinging desperately to their youth as if it's something that can be preserved forever. Gyana is probably in her mid to early twenties. I believe that this is her second year as an escort for District Three. It's as if she hasn't adjusted to representing the Capitol, a notion that I'm aware is ridiculous. She's lived in the garish, privileged city for her entire life.

I realize that I'm irrationally observant of a silly little girl preparing children to enter the deadliest games in history, and quickly snap out of it.

"Welcome!" she intones, as if this is a thoroughly rehearsed presentation. With the sharp pierce of the slightly faulty microphone, the crowd's silence is immediate. "Today, two tributes will receive the unique honor of representing District Three in the thirty-seventh annual Hunger Games." Silence, where applause is obviously intended. I smile wryly.

Clearly disconcerted at the quiet, Gyana clears her throat and then continues. "Before we begin, please enjoy an exclusive speech from our very own mayor of this wonderful district, Mayor Xander Winston!"

A tall, middle-aged man with hair that has grayed immensely since his past public appearance enters the stage. A tepid applause now rings throughout the gloomy crowd; the mayor isn't hated. His family is only envied for their privileged lifestyle. They know that it isn't his fault that the Games proceed year after year, and he tries to subtly remind his district of this fact whenever he has to give such a speech as the one he gives now.

"Greetings to the people of District Three," he begins in a harsh yet dull monotone. "It is the time of the annual Hunger Games, reminder to the districts of their tenuous reliance on the shining Capitol..." He shows his obvious disapproval through his tone and lack of body language. To anyone that has casually met the man, this greatly strays from his normal demeanor. Despite the steadily increasing wrinkles and the years that take a toll on his body, Mayor Winston is an animated and cheerful character. The idea of the Hunger Games absolutely disgusts him and he has no qualms about freely expressing that feeling through lack of enthusiasm.

The speech is dull and repetitive. Frill and I took the time to memorize the lecture years ago, after hearing it in school time and time again. I smile plays on my lips, because it's apparent that the youthful crowd is relaxing slightly. No matter how boring and monotonous, there is definitely something about the familiar speech that comforts the crowd.

As Mayor Winston finishes, he nods his head and steps back, allowing a low-spirited Gyana to claim the front position of the stage. A portable table containing the Reaping ball is brought out and placed next to the escort. She doesn't try to win the stony crowd with high squeals and singsong voices, because she knows now that it's futile.

"We'll start with the girls, then." Her elaborately manicured hand reaches into the glass ball. After a pause, she quickly draws it out again, a crucial line forgotten. "And may the odds be ever in your favor," she finishes hastily, before her hand plunges once again into the sea of a thousand names. I close my eyes.

"Thryce Kabira," Gyana calls, eyes curiously searching the crowd for a disturbance indicating her location. In the seventeen year old section a tremor runs through the crowd, a wave of tension. Being exorbitantly short compared to the other boys my age, I have to jump like an anxious toddler to see to the section of the crowd. The hundreds of teenagers respectfully bow out of the way, creating a clearing and allowing the girl, Thryce, to make her way to the stage. Only as she solemnly steps up do I really receive an insightful glimpse of her.

She's huge, that's for certain. Not a flabby, overweight sort of huge, but a stocky, muscular huge. She stands nearly a foot taller than me, and her confident posture emphasizes every inch of that height. Her dark chocolate skin offers a welcome variety from the usual pale, gray-hued skin tones of most citizens of District Three. And her face betrays no emotion whatsoever besides grim determination.

I feel a thin, vague connection to her, a certain empathy. I sigh. Perhaps she has a chance of winning. She's not a Career - presumably - but her size and confidence will certainly give her an advantage in terms of sponsorship. And that could save her life.

"Hello, dear," mutters Gyana, a greeting that Thryce ignores excepting a small, deep grunt in the back of her throat. Gyana then practically shoves the girl out of the way to make her way to the boys' Reaping ball, on the opposite side of the same small table.

A quiver begins in my stomach. For some reason, a dark feeling spreads throughout my chest. My eyebrows join together; this usually doesn't happen before the crucial moment on most years.

"And now, we have the boys!" pipes Gyana as her hand dives once more into the clear glass ball. Suddenly the dark feeling intensifies, sending shivers through my spine. Her unnaturally long fingernails scrape the bottom as she pulls to the surface the fateful slip of folded paper. The feeling twists in my stomach and shoots through my throat, filling me with a cold sense of dread. She clears her throat and slowly opens the paper.

The feeling disappears as she reads the name.

"Beetee Ainsley!"

**Author's Note: I just wanted to say that I apologize for the construction of this chapter and the way that it keeps sharing Beetee's opinions of the world. Please don't hold that against me. I simply wanted to accomplish most of the explanations of his personality here so that I don't have to worry about it in future chapters. It will become much more fast-paced. I pinky swear.**

**You know what to do! I can't create a decent story without figuring out what I'm doing wrong! Review!**


	2. Painful Drama

**Disclaimer: I think you know what I'm going to say. I don't own anything you recognize. Sorry.**

**Author's Note: So yeah. The problem with writing Reapings is that they are so amazingly easy to make unbearably boring and actually quite difficult to make different or interesting. Why? Because there are only so many realistic reactions to being Reaped and they've all been done in a million other fan fictions. So, to keep the amount of hair being torn out to a minimum, I tried to add something different. **

My eyes close.

My emotions shut off, but my brain takes flight and zooms through the complications of the situation. Already an intense, yet not quite recognized, worry is eating at me from the inside. Frill. My father. Tesserae. Alcohol. Around me, I dimly register the staring eyes of everyone surrounding me. _Walk, _my brain screams at my body. Walk. Through the crowd, to the stage. Step. Step. No. Step.

I don't, though. I cannot find the will within me to step. I remain stationary and dumbly stare up at the stage. _No,_ I think. _Beetee doesn't exist. Beetee Ainsley never existed. Leave me alone. Choose another name._

Unfortunately, that futile hope to which I cling is brutally crushed when the teenagers around me almost subconsciously shift away from me, rippling the crowd and creating an epicenter in the sea of faces. Me. Please, no, please. Please. It soon becomes obvious, however, that accepting my fate is unavoidable.

Gyana's searching stare shifts until it's fixed on my eyes and I find myself cornered, like an unpleasant rat eyed by a posse of starving cats. She impatiently beckons to me. _We haven't got all day, dear,_ her gaze seems to chastise.

In a daze, I infinitesimally nod to her and my legs slowly trudge the way to the stage as if the brick streets have suddenly become pools of not-yet-dry concrete. My limbs feel like lead. Each and every pair of eyes seem to turn to me, then quickly flit away as if simply looking at me like I'm still a human being is a major discourtesy. As if I'm already in a coffin.

As if I'm already in a coffin. The sentence echoes in my foggy head until I'm nearly up the steps to the stage. And suddenly, the reality hits me. I'm a corpse.

I stumble and trip onto the stage, my knobby knees scraping against the tasseled wooden boards, my glasses skittering across the platform. Gyana shrieks and the audience rumbles sympathetically with, I think bitterly, an edge of cruel amusement. The heat rushes to my face in embarrassment as I hastily heave myself upward on to my trembling feet. I don't think that my tenuous—no, nonexistent—reputation could stand it if I scramble about of the floor frantically searching for my glasses, and any chances of sponsorship much less. Oh, shoot. _Sponsors. _So I forget the glasses, straighten myself up with what little dignity I can muster, and lift my shoulders until my permanent slouch matures slightly.

I blankly stare at the crowd, knowing that I should probably come up with some sort of reaction. Give the audience some sort of taste of my personality; supply them with a reason to sponsor Beetee Ainsley. After all, this first impression that I leave is crucial. I could become a fearless, battle-hungry warrior during my time at the Capitol, but if they first view me as… well, as _me_, it may not matter. But I'm simply unable to create an effective angle without humiliating myself immensely. This, I reason, is currently the least of my worries.

I continue to stare at the crowd, and I find myself rubbing my eyes. Stupid vision impairment.

Before Gyana prances to retrieve the damned glasses, I hear a frantic panting made of wild gasps and my head instinctively turns. Though I can hardly see, I can make out a small girl dashing past the Peacekeepers and making her way toward the stage with more raw energy in her eyes than I've ever seen before. Frill. She shoves the shocked spectators away and they make way for her, giving her space to weave around her pursuers. As she bats off the monstrous security with her fragile little arms, she screams. "No! Beetee, NO!"

She desperately comes to a halt at the foot of the stairs to the platform and makes the ascent as fast as her legs are capable. The Peacekeepers finally catch up to her, though she's warding them off with all of the strength she possesses. My vision is a bleary interpretation, based off of color and light, but I can see that there's a fire in her eyes, and I know that it's not going to lead to anything particularly beneficial. She's thrashing about, and a Peacekeeper in a thick white coat bends down to grip her wrists. Before he gets a hold on her, she punches him.

Hard. Square in the jaw. My mouth gapes and I scream out. "Get your hands off her!"

She dashes out of the Peacekeeper's grasp and breathlessly sprints to me, wrapping her arms around my abdomen. "No, Beetee, don't go! I'll volunteer!" Tears spring to my stinging eyes and I rapidly blink them back and my throat feels full of pebbles. I open my mouth, but find myself unable to speak, unable to reply. I want to express my gratitude that even though she's only ten years old she's so willing to sacrifice her life for me. The Peacekeepers come to grab her and drag her away by force. In my emotional trance, I pry her arms off of me and simply let her go, staring after her with a blank expression. Until I see the bruise.

Not hers, no. The Peacekeeper that she struck has a dark purple splotch spreading along his cheek and his eyes have a dreadful fury in them. It hits me, the implications of what Frill has done. The Capitol's wrath for disrespect of the Peacekeeping force is brutal, especially in such a large district as Three. She's jeopardized her life in that small, instinctive moment, and I begin to tremble even more violently, looking obviously weak and cowardly. But sponsors suddenly don't matter. Yes, humiliating myself is definitely the least of my worries.

Gyana is gasping and Thryce, the girl tribute, simply has an astonished expression painted on her face. The mentors, who I've barely taken notice of and have no desire to begin now, look visibly upset. As I turn to the crowd, faces blurring in my lack of spectacles, I realize that all I can hear are Frill's fading sobs as she's dragged away. There's no sound from the audience, not a single whisper, not one ounce of gossip. No. No, no, no! "Frill," I barely manage to choke out, audible to no one but Thryce, who stands directly beside me. She flashes a sympathetic glance at me, which I barely register.

As if trying to pacify the stunned crowd, the audio systems abruptly begin to blare the first few notes of the national anthem. I attempt to breathe regularly, but I end up inhaling and exhaling at an alarming rate, not even trying to conceal the horror on my face. I don't need the Capitol audiences to see me like this. I hide my emotions behind a thin veil by burying my face in my hands and grasping the roots of my mousy hair in uncontainable frustration.

At best, she'll be publicly whipped. The thought sends chills through my skin, makes my teeth chatter. I wince as a vision runs through my mind, Frill dressed in rags and shrieking hysterically as the merciless, brutal whip lands on her flesh with a sickening crack and the blood flows from her wound. Desperately, I try to rid my mind of the dreadful image, fighting the urge to collapse in hopelessness. That's the best case scenario. At worst…

No. No, I need to stop thinking of that. She didn't kill a Peacekeeper, after all, merely bruised him. And she's so small! They wouldn't dare. No. I shake my head furiously, as if to force the thought away from my subconscious, to prevent it from picking at my mind.

As the last note of the anthem plays and the symphony of digitalized instruments goes quiet, a strong, meaty hand grips my shoulder with little gentleness. Then another one. I raise my head from my hands, losing my moment of temporary privacy. I glance to Thryce, and see that identical hands are doing the same to her. With stiff, short steps down the miniature flight of stairs, we're led through the staring crowd.

As we walk through the crowd slowly, I find that everyone's character is suddenly crystal clear. The semi-decent spectators, the ones who care that at least one of us is most certainly going to die, look away with pain in their eyes, unable to meet our gazes. Of course this makes me feel exactly like a pig going to the slaughterhouse, but it's more bearable to watch people look away than to watch the others, the gamblers, the ones that gaze at us with fascinated glances as though already weighing how low we're going to last. Most of them look at me, and I know that they must already be entertained by me. By Frill's dangerous show of dedication. _It's amazing how interestingly dramatic your life becomes when you're condemned to death, _I absently realize. My main focus is on keeping the anguish wiped clean from my face.

We walk through the streets of District Three, and I simply stare straight ahead. _You can wait until you're in private to break down, _I tell myself inwardly. My face is blank and expressionless, my eyes uncaring. Thryce, I can tell, glances at me periodically and opens her mouth as if wanting to say something, but I ignore her with cold contempt apparent in my silence. Vaguely, a prick of guilt registers in the back of my mind, but I angrily suppress it. I no longer feel like the patient and empathetic teenager that had pitied this girl at the Reaping. I now feel a fury at the Peacekeepers, at myself, at my oblivious father, and even at Frill.

After we've entered the Justice Building, we're separated and I'm practically thrown into a luxurious, colorful room. The doors promptly slam behind me, giving me a strange feeling of confinement and security. I remain standing near the doorway, staring at nothing with an icy look on my face. It takes me a minute to numbly sit down on the soft, bright violet sofa and clutch my chest, staring ahead with dry eyes. Pathetically, I begin to rock myself back and forth, back and forth, as I did when I was a child still dealing with my mother's death. Surprisingly, I don't feel to differently right now.

It's gone. It's all gone. My brief realization that I was practically a corpse shocked me into reality, but now it seems irrelevant. It's not the fact that I'm headed to my execution that makes me feel like collapsing on the floor. It's the fact that I'm no longer able to protect my sister, at this crucial moment. My entire world is crashing down on me, shattering like delicate glass and raining from the sky. It's all going to crush me, kill me from the inside. The worst part is that Frill, innocent and sweet, is trapped in the shards, in the most danger that she's ever been in.

It's all my fault, isn't it?

I bury my face in my hands once more, feeling immensely weak and easily defeated. I'm going to die. Frill is going to suffer. And I'm sitting in solitude, alone in a room, weeping. I don't have the will or the strength to take any action. The numbness that I felt just a few moments ago now subsides, leaving me to the starving beast that is my tangle of emotion.

Fear. Frustration. Sorrow. Regret. Guilt. Hopelessness. And an overpowering, all-consuming emotion that completely washes over me, wiping away all reason. A mind-numbing anger. I cry out, reach for an ornate ceramic lamp sitting on a small wooden table, and take it by its neck. My grip tightens, and I draw my arm back. It quickly snaps forward, letting the lamp ram into the sound-proof walls and shatter at the impact. I slump against the wall and a monosyllable rips from my throat, killing the rage and leaving the sorrow. I simply curl up in the corner of the room and stay there.

Frill doesn't come, only confirming my horrible fears. I know that nothing short of being arrested would prevent her from coming to provide a comforting farewell. She _must _be at the very same Justice Building, her fate being decided. My eyes shut tightly, still unable to truly expel the image of Frill being whipped. Before I let emotion was over me once more, the door tentatively opens.

My tear-stained face rises and my eyes, utterly incapable and rather confused, take in the stranger as best as they can. He has the same build and demeanor, I realize immediately, as Thryce, and the same rare chocolate skin. A relative of hers, surely. He looks at me for a moment, so pathetic and vulnerable, curled in the corner, and pity softens his face. I tilt my head like a distressed and curious child.

His hand stretches forward, offering me something. I peer at them, my eyes straining in effort. When I finally identify them, my expression almost imperceptibly brightens. Gratefully, I reach out and grab the item, shoving them on my face. My eyes seem to sigh in relief as the entire world returns to its former clarity. My glasses. "Thank you," I say, still slightly puzzled.

He nods. His voice is rich and deep, very quiet, yet strong. How I imagined Thryce to speak. "My sister, she picked them up on the stage. Wanted me to give them to you." I feel guilt gnaw at my stomach, since I had pointedly ignored her as she tried to give them to me on the walk to the Justice Building. He stares at me, in my position on the floor, and tries to express something through his eyes. He can't seem to find the words.

"Well," I reply, breaking the silence with my slightly shaky voice, "tell her I said thank you." Immediately, I revise. "When she gets back."

He nods meaningfully and with unsure, awkward steps walks over and bends down, patting my shoulder in what is obviously meant to be a comforting gesture. I look up at him when he straightens. "Good luck," he says hesitantly. Obviously, he knows what it will mean for him if the odds are in my favor. He opens his mouth, as if to say more, and then shakes his head. He turns away, leaving the room with a single slam of the door.

I sit, puzzling over Thryce's concern. For some reason, I don't feel so alone. I'm still worried to the point of insanity by Frill, about the fact that in the arena, I'll never know whether she's injured or safe or in pain or being publicly tortured. I'm still selfishly frightened for myself, for my own upcoming public execution. And I'm still shocked by the overall ordeal of today.

But for some reason, I'm comforted by the fact that I'm not..._ completely_ alone.

It's actually quite pathetic.

**Author's Note: Satisfied? Dissatisfied? I'd love to know; you figure out how to make that happen. *Hint, hint***


	3. Mentors

**Disclaimer: See previous chapter, if you really need to. But I think that you understand what a disclaimer is. ;)**

**A/N: Well, _that _took me long enough. Ugh, seriously, I'm really sorry about the chapter delay. I'm still not entirely satisfied with this chapter, because I think that the transitions from subject to subject are choppy and unnatural, but oh, well. This fan fiction is eating away at my subconscious and I needed to update or else it would completely stress me out, and then I would start to avoid my computer at all costs, and then you would _never _get an update.**

**Here, I'm going to give a quick shout-out to you lovely people who reviewed. Thanks to Captain Lexi, who gave me my first review (thanks so much for hanging around for the second chapter!). Thanks to Song of Grey Lemons, my amazing fellow author for the lovely reviews (Hi, Lemi!). And thank you to Dobby's Reincarnation for reviewing as well (just your pen name makes me want to hug you!).**

**Have fun with a rather angsty Beetee in this chapter. That reminds me; Beetee may seem out of character when compared to the Beetee that we see in the books. I did this on purpose. No one's personality when they're fifteen is identical to their personality when they're middle-aged, for one thing, and for another, the Games had to change Beetee in some way. He never had a drinking problem, never became mentally disturbed, and never was addicted to morphling, so I figured that his overall demeanor must have changed pretty drastically. I tried not to make him a completely different person, just a few notches up, if you know what I mean.**

** So, yeah. Do try to enjoy!**

I don't even get to see her.

As I'm escorted out of my room at the Justice Building, following an hour rather empty of any other visitors I ask, again and again, about my little sister. But unfortunately, if there's one thing that distinguishes Peacekeepers from regular citizens, it's that the more desperate the question the easier they're pushed into frustrating stoicism.

"Where _is _she?" I finally shout near the end of the hallway, near the exit. I catch a single smug smile from one of the white-coated escorts before he lifts his chin even more and continues to stare forward. His eyes don't flicker down toward me. I'm completely ignored. "Where is she?" I repeat after a few seconds of silence. I'm led onto the sunless grey streets when I finally refuse to keep moving with them. I fasten my feet to the streets, not letting them drag me forward anymore. "Where is she?" I say again, teeth gritted in stubborn persistence.

To my annoyance, my refusal barely disturbs the methodic Peacekeepers; they simply grab me by the underarms and lift me upward like a children's doll. Furious, I continue to be difficult by kicking at them using all the power I possess to cause them any mild form of pain. They're prepared to deal with my resistance. I'm lowered onto the ground with little gentleness when they sharply pull my arms behind my back, forcing me to follow them. The largest part of me knows that no amount of inquiry on my part will lead to any information about Frill, but it feels too much like a cruel betrayal to her if I don't even try.

"Tell me!" I continue, searching for some riveting argument that begs their attention. But all that I get in return is more frustrating stoicism. "Tell me! I want to see her! Let me _go!"_It's a propositionwhich, you'll probably guess, is just as effective in shattering the icy facades of the Peacekeepers. I see no other way to get to them, or keep myself from collapsing in an emotional heap once again, so I continue to babble on repetitively, about how they absolutely must tell me where Frill is and what's happening to her and how they need to let me see her or else… what?

Contemplating this, I'm suddenly snapped into reality. Nothing I say is going to cause them to really obey a scrawny fifteen year old heading to his death. To them, I'm as good as a troublingly inconvenient dead body. The last thing that they're going to do is respect my wishes. It's a harsh truth, but I realize that I need to accept that the fading screeches were the last I'm ever going to hear of Frill. We're rapidly approaching the car that will bring us to the train station, and after that, it will be far too late for any stray goodbyes. For some reason, that thought, the thought that the last thing my sister said to me was more of a distressed scream than a word, causes my throat to tighten around a hard lump. I give up, relaxing against the Peacekeepers' sturdy grips, and allow them to firmly steer me to the car.

I climb in, finding Gyana and Thryce awaiting me, sitting side by side. I don't listen to Gyana's ever-present, pointless chattering. I don't pay attention to the disorienting, fast-paced motion of the vehicle. I let my gaze blankly rest on the passing surroundings of the vanishing District Three. _Let her go, _I think sadly. _She's gone. _Then, realizing that this sounds too much like Frill is the one heading for death, I revise. _I'm gone._

In time, the car bumps its way along the brick-paved streets to the train station, leaving Gyana grumbling with every airborne moment. As soon as it pulls into lot, eyes widen in a new kind of fright, pushing Frill momentarily out of my mind.

Festering in every corner of the place, in every open space, is a reporter of some kind. But the reporters aren't what alarm me. Every one of them is equipped with at least one camera. Complicated, intricate cameras that only the really rich factory owners could afford in District Three. With gleaming metal concealing the inner workings, and lenses that zoom forward and out with the casual push of a button, they're obviously extremely precise. Probably ready to capture every last move that I make. I've tried to make a camera before, using actual film and old rusty parts that I hoarded over a long period of time. It's an intricate mechanism; it's difficult to make the "old-fashioned way," as the rich ones call it, but a digital one is so much more effective. I panic slightly. Any wrong move could be caught forever on the cameras and deplete any chance I have in terms of sponsors.

I open the door and step out, forgetting that the edge of the car is elevated and expecting to land on solid ground. The unfortunate misconception causes me to trip – I stumble onto the ground once more as cameras eagerly feast on the image. Hurriedly I rise once again, wiping my face clear of emotion and holding the door open for Thryce in what I hope is a gentlemanly fashion. Decidedly stoic, I begin to steadily walk next to Gyana, my gaze fixed in the distance above the crowd's heads.

We stand outside the door to the train for a good two minutes, giving the mass of people plenty of time to capture all the photographs they need of the District Three tributes. Finally the doors slide open and, sticking my chin even higher in the air, I file in next to Thryce and Gyana. As soon as the doors close the train speeds away with a startling jerk.

"Two-hundred and fifty miles per hour," Gyana assures us proudly. "A very impressive model by the Capitol engineers. We'll be at the Capitol with as little delay as possible." As I take in the room, the colorful sofas and the tables splayed with sugary pastries and cakes, I simply nod, feeling that I'm going to become tired of our escort very, very quickly. Her high, girlish monotone doesn't seem to cease, and truly listening to the substance of her one-sided conversation seems unbearable. Still talking rapidly about trains, and then the "décor," and then the materials the décor is made of, and then District Eight, and then about different industries, she leads us down into the next car and down a long, regal hallway.

I look at Thryce with a furrowed brow, unsure if perhaps I'm abnormally opposed to speaking or if it's Gyana's problem , but she just shrugs at me and gestures to Gyana, rolling her eyes. This pulls a small smile from me.

At the end of the hallway sits two doors. Thryce and I leave our escort behind as we quicken our pace to arrive at the doors. We open them and peer inside, walking in and closing our own doors simultaneously. I lock the door for good measure, making it hopefully impossible for Gyana to follow. Now she's frantic, but at least her voice is somewhat muffled. I smile slightly.

"Fine!" she finishes through the heavy wooden door, offended and irked. "Just be at the dining hall in time for dinner!" Her high heels click away rapidly.

I continue to smile for a while.

The hour and a half that I have before dinner slips through my fingers alarmingly quickly. The digital clock that sits on the stand near my table seems to be malfunctioning, letting the minutes accumulate one after the other. Though I feel weak and awful, it becomes clear that after about an hour I desperately need food. It occurs to me that I've been either too nervous or too emotional to eat since I sat with Frill in the cave this morning. I sigh. It feels traitorous to need anything from the Capitol, the same Capitol that tears apart twenty-four families a year for their own enjoyment. But obviously, now is not the best time to go on a fast. I'm not exactly what you might call nourished.

Though it's clear that Gyana is still angry with me since I slammed the door in her face, she knocks on my door again the minute that the clock reads the correct hour. "Come on, dear!" she chirps, trying to hold back her annoyed undertones and failing. "The first dinner is very important!" Because so much is important when your days are able to be counted on two hands, especially a lavish dinner. I know that eating the food is unavoidable, but I figure that I might as well reject the drawers and drawers of luxurious clothing. My oversized gray shirt stays on as I walk down the hall to the dining hall on the train.

I see Thryce already sitting there, donning an admittedly attractive dark orange dress that she found while flipping through her new wardrobe. Next to her sit two more people, people I so easily and foolishly overlooked at the Reaping—a man in his early thirties with slick black hair and pale skin, whom I remember to be named Chip, and a woman in her forties with blond hair and a rare tan. Our mentors. I mentally kick myself for not taking more notice of the two of them before now. After all, they will be our lifelines in the arena.

We've had a fair number of victors in the past thirty-seven years, six to be more exact. Not as many as the Career districts, but District Three has been known for its cleverness in the past, and wit can kill as easily as an axe in some instances. We've had enough victories for me to forget the female mentor's name. She quickly introduces herself in a low, intelligent voice. "Hello," she greets the two of us with a short nod and a solemn face. "I am Pyra Delta, and this is Chip Longson, both victors of the Games from years past, obviously. I shall be Thryce's mentor," she says, gesturing to Thryce, "and Chip will be Beetee's. To the best of our abilities, we will attempt to prepare you for what awaits in the next weeks, and hopefully one of you will be able to return safely." Here she pauses, then when no one responds, she continues. "We will give you advice on strategy and as many skills as possible, but much of the effort will be left up to you."

Chip interjects in a sarcastic, jocular voice varying somewhat from the usual soft-spoken tones of most District Three citizens. He immediately appears arrogant and full of himself, by his overly confident air and the way that he carries himself. Most of Three hunches over and has a shy and quiet demeanor, but Chipp seems to have escaped the stereotype. "Strategy and skills, mainly including how to win as bug of a fan club as you can before the Games start." He glances at me with something of a sneer. "You in particular, Beetle, need some help with that."

I hardly think it's fair that my mentor, basically my only chance at survival, already seems set against me. Annoyed, I respond in a louder tone than I want to. "_Beetee," _I say defensively. "And what do you mean, I need help? We haven't even started promoting the tributes."

"Yeah," says Chip, waving his hand dismissively. "Look, it doesn't start at the chariot rides. Every move you make when there's a camera around goes down into history, unable to be erased. You looked mentally disturbed, coming out of the car. No expression, no acknowledgment of the crowd at all." Oops. I thought that I had been doing something right. Apparently my indifference caused more harm than good. "I thought you were sleepwalking," Chip continues. "Kid, listen, and listen very closely." He gestures to Thryce. "This one here can pull off the whole stoic and detached approach because she actually looks like she has some physical ability, and let's face it, she's not bad-looking either," he adds fairly. I can anticipate his next statement, and I roll my eyes, an act that he ignores.

"You, on the other hand," he continues in his lofty tone, "aren't exactly what I'd call camera-ready, and certainly not a threatening figure."

"Hey, that's enough," Pyra adds reasonably in her calm, intelligent tone. She seems uneasy and displeased that a simple meeting with their tributes has turned into a debate so quickly. She sets her steady gaze on me in a certain reassuring way. "Yes, sponsors are useful while in the arena," she says evenly, glancing to her fellow mentor. "However, strategy, skill, and cleverness are what will win you the Games."

Chip rolls his eyes, apparently determined to be in disagreement. "Right," he replies, voice dripping with sarcasm. "You're up against a well-presented, sponsor-earning maniac with weapons and steady supply of food and water thanks to those sponsors. Who's going to win that fight? Oh, never fear, you have _wit. _Yup, the Games seem to be wrapped up already."

Pyra opens her mouth to add an angry comment, but then seems to think better of it. She presses her lips together in disapproval and focuses on the platter of warm, juicy turkey that was brought out a few moments ago, unnoticed by me. I unhappily reach in with a lethal-looking fork and place a sizable helping on my place, chewing slowly. The taste is unlike anything that's ever touched my tongue before, but I barely focus on it.

Brilliant. I have a snarky jerk convinced that I'm an ugly runt as a mentor. What's worse, I realize, is that cool, intelligent, and wise Pyra is taken by Thryce. I cross my arms in a childish pout. I glance at my fellow tribute, and catch her smiling at me apologetically. Deciding that it might not be all too brutal to socialize as the rest of the people at the dinner table politely chat, I begin to speak to her for the first time.

" '_Let's face it, she's not bad-looking either,_'" I whisper at her, hoping that Chip can't hear. " 'You _on the other hand…' _Lovely, isn't he?"

Thryce lets out a low giggle, and I hear her deep, rich voice for the first time. "Sorry, Beetle. Looks like I get the nice one."

Hmm. Beetle. I shake my head sadly. Hopefully that clever little nickname doesn't stick. Thryce doesn't answer, but she chuckles once more.

Feeling a bit better that at least Thryce is in agreement with me, I continue to nibble on my turkey and, realizing how flavorful and delicious it is compared to the standard oatmeal of the district, I soon begin to shovel the stuff into my mouth with alarming speed. Drizzling a saltly brown liquid called gravy onto the plate, I take in the rest of the delicacies, spread out across the table in a colorful formation that has a beautiful scent. I forget my bitterness at the Capitol as I gorge myself on the food and forget the people around me.

Thryce decides to head back to her sleeping quarters after a heavenly dessert is quickly devoured, and I deem it best to follow her. Every word that I feel like I would want to say to Chip after dinner would probably strain our tenuous relationship even more. I sigh. As if having to worry about fighting to the death isn't enough of a burden. Now I have to worry about impressing my mentor in order to get any sponsor gifts directed my way.

I walk down the hallway next to Thryce and she turns to me to wryly smile once more. I return the expression. "Nice to know that my life rests in his hands, isn't it?"

She laughs again, a low chuckle. I look at her warm black eyes. She's incredibly accepting of me, it seems. I am a few years younger than her, but instead of labeling me as a scrawny little fifteen-year-old to be overlooked, she's treating me like a human being. It actually feels nice; it certainly hasn't happened that often in the past, excluding my sister and formerly my mother.

With that gaze, a sudden thought comes out of nowhere that seems to still the beating of my heart for a short second. We need to kill each other. Strange. That's the first time I think that I've actually, genuinely thought about such a situation, but it's true, isn't it? I'm going to have to kill many, many people if I feel like surviving more than a few days, and that's if they don't kill me first. The disturbing thought that has not really sunk in until now wipes the smile from my face. To Thryce's puzzlement, I suddenly quicken my pace and walk ahead of her, leaving her behind as I rush to my own door.

When I arrive in my room, I close the door behind me and stare at the ceiling. I sigh again, thinking of dinner and trying to push out the nagging thoughts of the Games. A part of me wants to push the Games out of my mind, leave it to buzz at my subconscious and fight off the mindless terror for a few more days. But another part of me just wants to accept reality—I am a tribute in the Hunger Games. I am a tribute in the Hunger Games. In a few days, I will be heading for the arena, in which I will most likely die. And Thryce will most likely die with me. And twenty-one other children will die along with us. And one brutal maniac or one lucky child will have to live with themselves for the rest of their miserable lives. There's really no way to win.

Completely against my own will, my mind replays a series of disturbing scenarios that could occur in the arena. A knife plunging into my abdomen. A sword sailing toward my head. No food, with hunger overpowering me, forcing me to collapse. No water, bringing an agonizing thirst. Freezing to death. Drowning. Burning. With every sick movie, I toss and turn, attempting to chase away the horrible images.

I don't fall asleep that night.

**A/N: Read. Review. Make me squeal like a small child.**


	4. Stating the Obvious

**[Insert legitimate excuse for not updating for the last half eternity]**

**[Insert sincere pleas for forgiveness]**

**Yeah... I'm really sorry about that. I could go on about my methods of writing, but here's what you need to know. I'm slow. And I had to rewrite this chapter. And I rewrote it very slowly. And as for the rest, I blame the end of school and a big helping of laziness. Rewriting this chapter was hard, because though I feel like it needs to be in here, it appears to be filler. It's not, but I organized the chapters stupidly, so this one seems to have few important events. Sorry 'bout that, too.**

**Anyway: Thank you again to Dobby's Reincarnation, CaptainLexi, and Song of Grey Lemons, and a new thank you to T0M Serv0 (thank you for the constructive criticism that helped me with this chapter), and Zoe (I totally agree!). **

**Enjoy. **

Eventually, I hear Gyana's voice once more through the halls, followed by the curt rap at my door. "The reruns of the Reapings are on!" she informs me brightly through the door. "Come and watch it with us, you two." The absence of her heels tapping the tiled floor means that she's still standing, waiting for a response.

This doesn't give me a very powerful motive to emerge from my chamber, but all things considered, nothing in the room is much more interesting than whatever Gyana could have to show me. I tell myself that, to hide from the fact that I really have no choice. That "requests" are as good as commands when you're directly threatened by a government with no reasonable limits. "Coming," I call, walking toward my door and realizing that Gyana is still waiting for me. Thryce then says that she's coming as well, and soon all three of us are walking down the hallway to the compartment somewhat awkwardly, emotionally separated by the tenseness of the situation and yet the urge to be polite due to the luxurious surroundings.

We reach the other compartment and I immediately see a bright colored sofa and an extremely thin flat screen television that shows the frivolous advertisements in perfect definition. I see that Chip and Pyra are both waiting on the couch, Chip lounging with a sugary looking drink in his hand and Pyra still somehow looking rigid, even though she's also slouched against the cushions. Thankfully Gyana doesn't feel the need for greetings—which I'm relieved at, since we met each other less than an hour ago—and we sit down with comfortable distances between each of us.

As if on cue, the reporter flashes on to the screen at the conclusion of a commercial for colorful lotions and launches into an enthusiastic generalization of the Reapings before showing the footage.

First District One. A good amount of teenagers volunteer, but the ones who are finally selected look rather typical, or at least, as typical as people who are out to kill you can get. They look well-fed, reasonably muscular, probably sixteen years old, seventeen, eighteen. I register their faces, hair color, but to be honest, they don't make a huge impression in my mind. District Two is similar, except the dark-haired girl tribute seems to be rather young. Maybe fifteen, or even fourteen. This surprises me; you'd think that they'd choose the tributes that have the most to offer to the Districts. It makes me uneasy. What does this girl have that Careers three years older than her don't?

They show Thryce and me as we are Reaped. I wince slightly as I watch myself fall on the stage and my glasses skitter across the floor, and brace myself for the scene that I know is about to come, with Frill. But it doesn't. It launches straight into the Reaping of District Four after some amused commentary about my trip. I frown, surprised, but slowly realize that it makes sense. They must figure that it shows the Peacekeepers in fairly evil light, dragging a hysterical ten year old girl away from her brother, who they're admittedly sentencing to death. Then again, I would consider the entire Reaping process to show the Capitol in a fairly evil light. The whole Games.

I miss the Reaping of the District Four tributes in my thoughts, but catch the very ending when they show the two nondescript tributes standing next to each other, and I mentally shrug. District Five, District Six, District Seven. Not much different, no one younger than about thirteen or fourteen, all scared-looking children. The usual business of death sentences. In District Eight there's a small boy who looks about twelve, definitely the youngest tribute Reaped so far. He doesn't raise his gaze from the ground the entire Reaping, but he can't hide the trembling in his hands. My heart hurts for him, and I idly wonder if maybe this almost gives him a slight… advantage? Probably not against the Careers, but among the rest of the tributes, the ones who don't want to kill any more than they want to be killed. Would they be more hesitant to attack a pitiful looking twelve-year-old than an average tribute? I doubt that the advantages of his inexperience and size outweigh the disadvantages, but it does make me think.

District Nine, Ten. The malnourishment of the children begins to clearly show now, especially the ones with enough desperation to apply for so much Tesserae that they're Reaped. Eleven, Twelve. I've long since given up on taking a mental note of every tribute, but the pathetic looking girl picked from Twelve almost hurts my eyes. Dark hair, olive skin, and barely any flesh on her bones whatsoever. Not many people outside of District Eight or Nine are exactly well fed, I believe, but the sheer thinness of this girl makes my heart sink. Probably from a family with far too many to feed. We learn very little about the different Districts in school besides their principle industry, and even less about the social structure or the more minor details of daily life. But Twelve, being both the smallest district and by far the poorest, has a certain reputation. And I frown a bit when I see the evidence of that reputation.

The energetic reporter wraps up the program with a short, light-hearted speech about the "new batch," the anthem plays, and advertisements begin once again. Chip rapidly seizes the remote and shuts the television into blackness. The silence stretches on for a few seconds before anyone speaks.

"So," Pyra begins, obviously grasping for any conversation. "What did you think?" In response, Thryce and I shrug simultaneously.

"Good answer," Chip says, and I don't miss the caustic edge of sarcasm. "So who do you think looks the most threatening? Who looks like the easiest target?"

When Thryce doesn't answer, I open my mouth in order to not enforce Chip's apparent notion that I'm an idiot. "Well, I think we should be worried about the girl from Two." I don't know why, but for some reason that seems like the answer that Chip wants to hear, since he strikes me as the over-analytic type. "The young one. It seems at first as though she isn't as much of a threat as the other Careers. But they probably work out in advance who has the most chance of winning for their District, and if you think of it that way, then she probably has a certain talent that other Careers don't."

Chip nods his approval. "Exactly. Also, the reason that they're probably entering her so young is that they expect her to be underestimated by the other tributes, which makes her even more dangerous."

Pyra smiles at me. "Nice reasoning, Beetee" she adds.

Chip turns to Thryce. "So, who do you think will be the easiest target?" he asks her.

She considers this for a moment, and then responds. "The small kid, from District Eight."

"Why?" Chip asks her, leaning in.

She looks somewhat unsettled at his intensity, as though she doesn't find her answer adequate anymore. "Well, he's smaller, he's weaker. Vulnerable, I guess." She says it like a question.

Chip shakes his head. "You're not thinking deeply enough. Yes, obviously he's smaller and weaker. But because of that, his mentors are going to get him at least some sponsors. Why is that?"

"Because of sympathy," I answer. "Or, more like pity."

"Not exactly," Chip says. "The point of sponsoring isn't to increase the lifespan of children and try to save them. The point of sponsoring is to help the kid you're betting on, ultimately for your own benefit. So no, pity won't get you many sponsors." He pauses, turning to Pyra for confirmation. She nods her agreement. "What does make you want to sponsor someone is skill and promise. Chances are the kid has at least a few redeeming qualities; maybe he's fast, maybe he can climb. If they milk those qualities for all that they're worth, it gives him a slight advantage, and they mean more in the eyes of sponsors than the redeeming qualities of a Career. Mostly because the smaller the tributes are, the smaller their odds are, and the more money the sponsor can get if they bet on them." I think I'm following.

Pyra takes up Chip's lecture. "That doesn't make him the strongest tribute, by any means, but that certainly doesn't make him the weakest. The weakest is the one who stands out in no one's mind."

"So," says Chip, "the reason that we're telling you all this is to prepare you for the next few days. While actual physical skill will become effective once training starts, right now it's all about making an impression on the citizens of the Capitol, through being seen in cameras and being seen in the chariot. Now go back to your chambers." He turns to me. "You look like you could use a good night's sleep or two, kid, and a lot of the Hunger Games is about exactly how you look, so I would get moving. Nighty night." Chip gets up to refill his empty drink and Pyra turns to us, saying similar things in a gentler tone. We're sent to bed with no discussion, like rowdy children who need to be set down for the night.

When I arrive in my chambers, the sight of the plush, large bed satisfies me more than I thought that it would. I walk to the bathroom quickly and look in the mirror. I can see what Chip meant when he said I could use some sleep. Dark circles hang beneath my eyes and I yawn as if to prove my point to my reflection. I'm in the bed moments later, drifting off as I feel the stress of the day lifting from my shoulders.

I come to consciousness seemingly seconds later, and I feel the weight return abruptly. As sunlight brightens the room around me, I frown and realize that I still wear the clothes that I've been wearing since the previous afternoon before the Reaping. Now that we're so close to the Capitol, Chip would probably find it imperative that I look presentable. I pick out the first suit that I see in the abundant closet and take it to the bathroom with me. After the shortest shower anyone has ever had—I don't like the feeling of so much water pouring on to me with so much pressure, so I speed t up—I throw the suit on and sit in my bed, awaiting the knock that is most certainly coming to herald breakfast.

Sure enough, within a few minutes, Gyana raps lightly on the door and summons me. "Beetee," she calls, no sign of sleep still in her voice. "Breakfast." I join her in the hallway again, and Thryce follows as we go to the separate cart for the meal.

We arrive at the same compartment that we had dinner in last evening. The broad mahogany table is set with large glasses of what seems to be orange juice awaiting us at each of our places, and Pyra and Chip are sitting patiently, also waiting for us.

"Good morning," Pyra immediately greets us, straightening her posture. "Did you both sleep well?" Thryce and I pull up chairs and nod again. While Pyra backs off, seeming to want to give us space to wake up so early in the morning before launching into a lecture, Chip seems to have no such reservations.

"So," he begins as we're settled. "I realized that I've forgotten to give you the option of being trained separately or together. So far it hasn't really mattered, since we haven't been _training_ as much as we've been stating the obvious about sponsors. But when it comes to more specific things, like special skills and battle strategies, you might want to remain separated. Your decision." He leans back in his chair and pours a few packets of sugar into his orange juice, casually stirring it as he studies our reactions.

"I don't really mind," I begin, but Thryce cuts me off.

"Let's go separately," she says immediately, glancing to me to make sure I approve. She doesn't elaborate or give a reason, but I don't really expect her to.

At first I'm a little surprised at her response, but then I realize that it does make sense. Becoming attached to her in any way isn't a great idea, since emotional stability isn't exactly my strength and I might end up doing something stupid when we're in the arena. I nod. "Yeah," I say. "I agree."

Chip nods. "I expected as much," he says simply, and nods to Pyra. "In that case, in order to get the maximum out of the time that we get to train with you, I will become strictly your mentor, and Pyra will become strictly Thryce's. We'll eat meals in separate rooms and make sure that one person's conversations won't be overheard by the other, just in case. Starting when we arrive at the Capitol."

Inwardly, I groan. Chip doesn't seem nearly as bad as he did at dinner last night, but he still doesn't strike me as the best person to spend a week showering you in lectures, especially without Pyra to throw in an encouraging word now and again.

"That works for everyone?" asks Pyra as the food is brought out.

"Perfect," I reply as enthusiastically as I can, and Thryce nods in agreement.

My head turns to the platters being carried by the servants. My eyes feast on succulent looking bacon, sausage, and ham, accompanied by eggs and white bread covered in butter. I look at the steaming mugs of hot chocolate, cheese and vegetables looking more appetizing every second that I stare at them. As soon as they're set down on the table, I forget the training issues and pile as much of the lovely food as I can file onto my sterile ceramic plate. Without waiting for the rest of the people at the table to get their helping, which, it occurs to me, might be the more polite way, I all but attack my plate, scooping piles of eggs, potatoes and bacon into my mouth rapidly. When my plate is clean, I look around and realize that my companions have barely begun theirs. Slightly embarrassed, I push my plate away from me and wait for everyone else to finish.

But breakfast goes on for a while. Thryce and the two mentors eat more slowly than me and refill their plates every time they're finished, going at a steady pace. Eventually, seeing that I've eaten so little compared to the others that I refill my plate once more, feasting on the food all over again. When I see that Gyana has only had a few orange slices, I ask her if she wants any more. She makes some comment about trying to improve her figure and taking a tiny sip of her orange juice.

I get so into breakfast that I barely notice when we pull out of a long, dark tunnel and into the light. As soon as the sunlight spills through the windows, every head turns to look out of them.

Shining in the sun is the beautiful architecture of the Capitol of Panem.

**Hopefully Chapter Five will be more exciting. Review, if you feel ever so inclined. :)**


	5. Chariots

**Disclaimer: Yeah, I'm totally Suzanne Collins. That's why I'm sitting on my computer and posting things to the internet and not like, getting published or anything. (That's sarcasm, people. Just so you know.)**

**Author's Note: Thanks everyone for your reviews! I appreciate and thoroughly read every one. The reviewers this time were Song of Grey Lemons, Dobby's Reincarnation, and T0m Serv0. Thanks for your consideration and patience.**

**This chapter was a little difficult to keep canon because Katniss describes very little of the processes taking place before the chariot rides. I mean, it doesn't seem incomplete while reading the book, but when dissecting every detail that I find it becomes somewhat frustrating. I don't hold it against Suzanne Collins or Katniss, but I kept thinking that I was missing something or I got something incorrect about the technical details about Remake Center or the prep teams or the stylists. Let me know if you noticed something inaccurate. Also, I tried to describe everything according to the book, but every once in a while you might notice something from the HG movie slipping in courtesy of my subconscious. I apologize.**

**Now do try to enjoy! Hopefully you find this a bit more exciting than the last chapter.**

Childishly, I find myself rushing to the window in uncontained curiosity. I peer out of the grimy window onto the seas of people—startling, freakish people—and gape. The buildings are what first catch my attention, and my gaze sweeps over the crowd at the station to take in the breathtaking buildings. Pillars of pure white marble tower over the city. The wide, smooth roads bustle with the activity of everyday errands that the Capitol citizens deem so important. The majestic white against the shades of the flawless blue of the sky would be beautiful, were it not for the splashes of unnatural color. Wigs, tattoos, unnaturally pigmented skin, garish suits and dresses; they throw neon colors in that don't belong, that pierce the eye. As if every single person wants to be the most noticed, wants to stand out.

The train glides to a smooth stop at the station, and firsthand I witness the Capitol people trying to get a glimpse of Thryce and me. I have to admit, I don't think that I was fully prepared to see the overly enthusiastic ocean of people, or the millions of fingers that all point directly at me, or the excited exclamations about my arrival. The colors are almost too much; so much brighter, so much more neon than when seen over television, as though someone has spilled cans of vivid paint across the platform. When I contemplated what the crowds would be like, for some reason I had prepared myself for an army of Gyana's clones. Somehow, this is more _startling _than that—and yes, you heard that correctly.

The doors of the train pull apart, opening a hole in the soundproof cars and letting the din of the of the station spill in. I walk out, followed by Thryce, Pyra, Gyana, and Chip, and peek out at the illuminated platform. Excitement rings throughout the crowd.

"Smile, kid," Chip all but hisses in my ear. I comply and try to relax, even wave at the people. Thryce is also smiling radiantly, looking at people warmly and with friendliness. I try to widen my smile to match hers, but it even feels unnatural and uncomfortable on my own face. "We need to work on that," Chip grumbles.

Thankfully, after a few awkward seconds, authoritative looking people dressed in all white approach us and promptly push the fascinated crowd back. They gesture to us across the platform and into a pearly white building. As soon as the doors open, I can see the raw grandeur of the interior—high, arched ceilings, gleaming tile, and soft, rich carpets.

I turn and notice that Gyana is no longer following us, and I realize that she must have broken off to go to a separate destination for the tribute escorts. Chip and Pyra are now following another hallway, leaving the white-suited people to direct the two of us down a different path with doors covering every wall. "See you after the chariot rides, tonight," says Pyra to Thryce, because she should really only be communicating with her own tribute. But she glances to me pointedly, and I nod in response, waving goodbye as she curtly walks away. Chip gives a little wave.

After a few more minutes of walking, I can truly appreciate the grandness of the building. I realize that after turning down so many different hallways and seeing so many identical doors, I could never find my way back. Perhaps because I'm more focused on the people accompanying me than my immediate surroundings. I expected the white-suited people to be grim and stern, like executioners. In fact, they're quite relaxed, laid back even. They chuckle at the idle chatter that they throw back and forth, even smile at Thryce and me. Finally, they stop at one of the uniform doors and gesture toward me, opening the door and allowing me in. "The Remake Center," one says. I blandly wave goodbye to Thryce and step in.

As soon as the door closes, I register the three pairs of startlingly dyed eyes staring at me.

While they're dressed in the standard white of the staff that I've noticed, it's clear that they've taken all the liberties they could think of: garish pins, outlandish piercings, colorfully died hair, tattoos with ornate patterns. Obviously, the strange things these people do to themselves are past shocking me, but it's strange to see doctor-like figures around a table of scary silver instruments with orange flames tattooed on their skin.

"Hello, dear!" pipes a short, plump one. She looks very young through all of her very thick makeup, not much older than perhaps twenty years. Her hair is a bright bluish green, her skin a deep, deep tan, and she has a plastic green weed tied around her neck and wrists. "I'm Aquava, and these are—"

"Jenyne," interrupts one taller one woman with light pink hair that looks like the wisps of cotton candy I've often seen in Capitol advertisements. Her eyes are dyed a bright pink and her skin has gems embedded in it down her arms.

"Epictius," calls an extremely thin man with hair that has alternating stripes of orange and gold. His skin is dyed a light golden that has a glittery sheen to it; he's the one with the flames on his skin. I can't see his face; he's busy selecting the perfect pair of scissors that all look identical to me.

"We're your prep team," says Aquava, and she smiles dazzlingly, showing pearly white, unnaturally straight teeth. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Jenyne and Epictius looking me up and down and inspecting every inch of me. I resist the urge to cringe away from their freakish eyes. "Your stylist, Lilith, will mainly be preparing you for cameras. But we're here to just… provide the foundation." I can see her eyebrows pull together worriedly for just a minute before her expression relaxes again.

They give me a robe to change in to, which I do behind a hanging blue, plastic curtain. "You can have a seat over here, sweetheart," says Jenyne, walking over and tapping the surface of a metal table with long purple nails. She walks over to a set of drawers and starts to shuffle through them.

I curtly walk to the table and sit down on the edge. Epictius is clutching his scissors and Jenyne is holding a buzzing electric razor, making me want to shy away. "We first wanted to deal with your hair," says Aquava. "If you see anything that concerns you when we're fixing it, let us know, but one thing that you should be aware of is that we're here, prepping tributes for the Hunger Games, so we know what we're doing." She grins. "Just a little reassurance, because quite a lot of kids seem very concerned about this."

I nod my acknowledgement, but what I'm really thinking of is what would cause anyone concern.

They get to work on my head; I can feel the blade on the back of my head, I register the scissors that subtly snip off tiny fragments of my hair. No one ever thinks to be concerned about hair in District Three, much. While working in the factories, most of the employees tie their hair back into nets and elastics so that it doesn't get in the way of the circuit boards or the conveyor belts. Whenever my hair grows to be too long, I use the scissors in the bathroom to chop off the bits that get in the way of my sight. So seeing my new hairstyle progressing in the mirrors on the opposite wall unnerves me. However, I think I'd have to have a higher sense of vanity to be genuinely concerned about what they're doing.

During the haircut, Aquava doesn't appear to have anything obvious to do except keep up conversation with me, so that I remain entertained, and occasionally fetch something for the other two team members. It's mostly fluff and would be unexciting day-to-day activities were it not for the fact that Capitol life seems so foreign and ridiculous that I almost want to laugh at the chatter.

"I think you'll like the food here," Aquava says at one point. "At the Capitol building. It's an amazing change to go from middle class, like my family, into luxury. Here, it's five-star quality every night."

Other than the occasional grunt of acknowledgement, I haven't really responded to anything she's said. But I find myself replying, because I know that she's probably going to launch into another subject now and I want to know something. "Oh?" I tilt my head slightly, illustrating innocent curiosity. "So, what exactly do you mean by middle class?" I think that maybe, maybe I'll find a bit more sympathy for these people if I find that the less rich ones had a tougher life, that some people may actually have to work for a place in the world, just like in the districts.

"What do I mean?" She's puzzled.

"I mean, by Capitol standards. Forgive me if you think I'm prying. I just mean, what qualifies as middle class here? What would be your average meal?"

"Average meal?" She seems confused. "Well…the regular size, I guess. We just couldn't afford restaurant quality every night, if you know what I mean. We had to compromise a bit, some canned food, some frozen meals." She shakes her head. "I remember I was embarrassed to have some of my friends over sometimes. They couldn't always stomach the frozen beef, or soggy beans. Some people have trouble eating that, and I can see where those people are coming from." She gives me a wink.

It's all I can do not to scoff. I simply smile in what I hope is a sympathetic way.

After they perfect my hair, they move on to some very high-tech "exfoliating foam," for "skin rejuvenation." Then the dirt and grease is scrubbed out from under my fingernails, and they are filed into perfectly round edges. Gels on sponges are scrubbed into my hands and feet.

"Ah, so you're a nail biter," says Jenyne in what is obviously a reprimand. "Honestly, it's a disgusting habit." At this, I bite my cheek in irritation. At least Aquava pretends to be kind.

Aquava defends me. "We've all seen a bunch of people with same problem, sweetie, you're not alone. It's easily fixed, just a little bit of filing." As soon as they finish with that filing, Aquava claps her hands together. "You're all done, sweetheart! We're going to go get Lilith now."

After brief goodbyes from the rest of them and a few more cheerful waves from Aquava, they finally walk out. Silence ensues as I sit on the table, waiting for my stylist. I don't have long to wait. Within a few moments a woman who barely looks like more than a girl, about my height, steps in the door and grins.

"Hey, honey!" she says, and I nearly jump when I see her smile. All her teeth are filed down to perfect points at the end, looking almost dangerous. Her eyes are dyed the most peculiar shade I've seen so far: jet black, with bright flecks of blood red in them. Her skin is pasty white with makeup, and black swirling patterns are tattooed all down her arms and legs. Her short dress with ragged, purposely ripped hems has black and red streaks as well. "I'm Lilith," she says, "and I'll be your stylist. Beetee, right?"

"Um, yes," I say. It's so strange, because her expression is warm and inviting despite her menacing eyes and distorted teeth. Her voice is high, bright, enthusiastic, a stark contrast to her dark and frankly scary appearance.

"Jeez, sometimes I think I should've chosen District Three just for the names. You guys have the best ones, no contest," she laughs. I can tell that she's the type of person that refuses to allow the conversation to drop. "Anyway, congratulations on being selected for the Hunger Games! I know it must be nerve-racking, but you're actually doing quite well. Some tributes in the past have just had all-out panic attacks, poor things. And don't worry, we'll get you accustomed to life in the Capitol in no time, and I think by then, the food will almost have made it worth it." Another giggle.

"That's what I've heard," I reply. I can't help but smile back. So many people resort to the food to find common ground for conversation.

"Well, you heard correctly. So, so, so. Come on over here so we can talk. We should probably get down to business." I follow Lilith as she quickly darts to the sitting room, and I follow her through the door, still in my robe. I see two shiny, black leather couches facing a wall made of entirely glass that overlooks the city. A table sits against one of the solid plaster walls, and with a press of a button, a huge meal of steak and potatoes in a creamy dressing rises up, making my mouth water. I think it might be rude to gather up all of the food that I can and eat it next to Lilith, though, so I simply go over to sit next to her on the couch.

"So," she begins once I'm settled. "The chariots."

I nod.

"Probably another reason I chose this district," she says, raising her eyebrows with a smile, "is the sheer number of options that we get for the outfits! Poor District Seven, they've been trees since the origin of the Games. We can do metallic outfits, antennae, even put a little bit of electricity in there. Pretty much anything futuristic or techno. We're going to have you guys really shine this year. You'll understand once you see these outfits. I really, really wanted to make you guys robots again, because the costumes are so _fun _to make, but Talon, my partner, said that the audience would get tired of it. So you'll just have to settle for being shiny, metal-covered people. Which, fine, I can deal with."

She sounds so innocent, so much like an ignorant little girl, that I chuckle and shake my head. "I guess I'll have to deal with it too, then."

"Sadly." She jumps up abruptly. "Help yourself to some food, honey. I'm going to go get your outfit and see how you look in it so that we can adjust it in time for the rides tonight."

I smile again and wave as she trots out of the room and out of the Remake Center. As she said to do, I pile my plate high with the extravagant food and scarf it down, especially savoring the creamy vanilla pudding that I can't help but get a second helping of. I'm relieved that my stylist is someone like Lilith, as freaky as she seems at first glance. Something about her is innocent, so detached from the mad evil of the Games, and honestly? A miniscule part of me thinks of Frill when I hear her talk.

After a few minutes and after the food on my plate is long gone, I can hear Lilith come in once more. "Beetee," she calls. "Come over here for a minute, if you're done eating."

I walk back through the doorway and meet her again. She's holding a canvas case with a zipper running down, concealing my outfit. She unzips it and reveals the suit with a dramatic "Ta da!"

Her exclamation certainly has reason behind it. With a stunning gleam in the light, the long-sleeved shirt and pants look exactly like they were sculpted out of metal, until Lilith fingers the costume. It ripples exactly like fabric.

"Pretty convincing, huh?" she says with a sharp-toothed grin. She turns the cuff of the sleeve inside out and reveals that it's made of a soft fabric. The outside is covered in a smooth, pliable, glinting surface that's about a half inch thick. "Talon wanted to keep it simple," she explains, "but I had to add some accessories in there. Hence, the zippers." She gestures to a series of long zippers running from the back of my collar down the hem. "I also have an idea for your hair, that Talon also didn't want to do, but oh well. Too bad for him, it's going to look fabulous."

I can only chuckle in response.

"Here," she says, handing me the suit. "you can go behind the curtain and change, if you want. I'll be in the other room." Gratefully I except it and head behind the plastic blue curtain to change once again.

The suit and pants both seem too big for me at first, but doesn't seem to worry Lilith too much when I emerge to show her. "Another helpful quality of zippers," she says. "We barely get any notice on how the tributes are built, and adjusting the zippers a little bit can make a world of difference in getting them to fit."

True to her word, I only have to stand in front of the mirror as she tinkers with the fabric for about a half hour before the outfit fits perfectly. "Alright, you're ready, kid!" she says, grinning. The same thing that Chip calls me, but she uses it as more of an affectionate term, while Chip almost used it as an insult, in my ears. "Does it feel okay? Walk around."

Afer I assure her that it feels perfect, she's all business again, dragging me to a spinning chair and sitting me down. "So. Your hair," she says. Her voice is already drifting off and she becomes deadly focused. She reaches for dyes, shampoos, conditioners. I dip my hair into a tub of warm water and she thoroughly washes and conditions it, then puts a special dye in it. About halfway through, she mumbles "Aw," and has to rinse out my hair and redo something or other that wasn't done to perfection. This causes her hands to move at a rapid pace; she's obviously concerned about time now. But soon it's dry, ready; and as I look in the mirror again, I realize that not only does my hair look foreign and strange with the foreign and strange things contaminating it, it also looks mesmerizing. Freakish, yes, but matched with the gleaming outfit, very… cool, in Capitol terms? I think that that's an understatement. "

When Lilith asks if I like it, I chuckle, but I think it comes across too rough, because her eyebrows join together momentarily. I rush to reassure her. "It's amazing. Really. I…" I trail off, but I think she gets the gist.

"Okay then," she says. "Well, we're a bit behind schedule, and I'm pretty sure that your other tribute, um, Thryce, is already headed down with Talon, so follow me quickly, okay?" She gestures to me and rushes out the door, through the long and complex hallways making up the Remake Center.

I have to trot to keep up with her, because though her legs are shorter than mine, she seems to have reservoirs of energy that never run empty. Down a flight of stairs I follow her, nearly tripping over the steps to stay with her. When we arrive at what must be the bottom floor, she opens the door for me and I step into what appears to be a gigantic stable. There are individual, straw-covered stalls for each horse, but all the doors are wide open, all the horses already lined up.

For the first time, I see all the tributes in person, which makes my eyes widen just by itself. The girl I spent so much thought on, the small District Two girl, she's there, looking even more menacing by the minute with her face switching between a dangerous smile and the hint of a hateful scowl. The District Eight boy, the young one, is also there, his face unreadable. They are both climbing into their chariots, and Lilith is soon rushing me to my own before I can start to stare at all the tributes. I finally lay eyes on both Thryce and her stylist Talon, a man quite small and skinny despite his threatening sounding name, in the process of climbing into the chariot themselves.

Lilith greets them both hurriedly, and I take in Thryce's outfit, pretty much matching mine except for a few added frills and linings and the fact that her costume is in the form of a long dress. But before I can comment, my stylist is urging me to climb on the chariot pulled by the dull grey, flecked horses. "Shoot," Lilith is saying. "I _requested_ white ones!_"_

Talon shushes her quickly with a dismissive flick of his hand. "And I requested grey ones. They match, sweetheart. And you know I overrule you," he says, an edge of humor in his low voice.

Soon I'm seated directly beside Thryce, with advice being thrown at me from both and annoyed Lilith and a smug Talon. "Chins up." "Chests out." "Deep breaths." "Stay relaxed." "Act natural." Trying my best to follow every order simultaneously, I assume the best position I can, and Lilith lets out a tense breath.

"Good enough," she tells me with a returning smile as the opening music begins. "Okay, stay just like that. Tune it all out until it's over." I tell her that I will, but I find it difficult to comply when, following District One and Two and a rumble of applause, we head out into the open.

Our journey through the Capitol city begins with an appreciative round of applause for our district and our sleek costumes. A brief chant of "District Three! District Three!" rings out as the horses clop agonizingly slowly through the streets. The chant dissipates, thankfully, when District Four is revealed.

I'm uncomfortable with the attention, to say the least. More accurately, it kind of petrifies me; I was put off by the sheer colors of the Capitol, by the small crowd (in comparison to this massive audience) at the train station. Now, I have now choice but to straighten my back and try not to collapse under the weight of all the heavy gazes. How many pairs of eyes, I wonder, are fixed directly on me? How many stares follow my path throughout the city? How many people are watching my face, waiting to see my reaction to the attention? There have to be at least dozens in the huge sea of Capitol citizens who are focused on me at this second. And with every move I make, I can all but feel them judging me, sizing me up. As the cool evening breeze tousles my perfectly done hair, the thought settles in my head and I can't chase it from my mind.

The Games have already begun, and part of me feels like I'm the last to know.

**Have fun going about your post-reading activities. *cough, cough, Reviewing, cough***


	6. My Apologies: Important Note

**I'm sorry that I didn't mention this earlier, but I've been out of town for a while and just did not get the opportunity.**

**I've decided that I'm going to have to stop writing this story. :( I don't mean to make anyone angry or annoy anyone; believe me, I groan whenever I see an abandoned story just as loud as the rest of us. But I think it's really the best decision. It's not that I've simply grown sick of writing, it's that I don't think that I gave this story enough forethought and looking back on the way I planned it out, I'm not very happy with where the plot may be heading. I've lost passion for the storyline, honestly, and I think that I can create a story of much better quality than this. I'd rather invest time in a story that I can really be proud of instead of a half-hearted kind of piece that I'm not very impressed with.**

**I probably shouldn't have started with a long multi-chapter story anyway – I should have kind of gotten a grasp on the whole system of this whole website and gotten to know which way of writing worked for me. Therefore, I'll soon be posting a one chapter story if anyone is interested in reading it. This certainly isn't going to be my last attempt at fanfiction. I plan to write much more and create a better system so that I can post updates much more frequently and hopefully be proud of my story.**

**That sounded really sappy, didn't it? Oh, well. Thank you to everyone who reviewed and read and again, I don't mean to anger anyone. See you in the future! :)**

**(Also: My fellow Beetee fans, I certainly have not given up on his character. The way I portrayed him here, I realize, has been rather inconsistent and choppy, and I plan to post something about him in the future. Thank you muchly.)**


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